The Portrait of Ariana Dumbledore
by HP-Forever-XX
Summary: Aberforth buys a portrait in order to commemorate his late sister. Now the only remaining members of the Dumbledore household are himself and his brother Albus, who are both faced with the decision of what to do next. Aberforth's POV


**Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 4—Round 10**

 **Team:** Holyhead Harpies  
 **Position:** Captain  
 **Task:** Write about a given ghost or portrait (Ariana Dumbledore)

 **Word Count:** 2,635

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 **The Portrait of Ariana Dumbledore**

It was I who had the portrait commissioned.

Magical portraits, if you wanted them to be of a high quality (which I did) didn't go for cheap, and I knew our family (at least, the tattered remains of it) could barely scrape enough together for a decent funeral, let alone one of those high-quality lifelike portraits. But it was important to me. I needed _something_ , anything, to commemorate her—to capture her every detail as though she were still alive—if I could not actually have her in the flesh. Which, of course, I could not.

I didn't care. I would give everything I had to preserve that youthful face. So young _._ _Too_ young. It made me sick to think that she'd forever be preserved as that subdued, twitchy fourteen-year-old. But not as much as it made me sick to think of who was responsible for enforcing such a cruel fate upon her.

I did not tell Albus about the portrait. Nor any of our relatives. I had a feeling they would either object or try and get involved, and I wasn't sure which would be worse. Albus, I knew, would not contribute—he would tell me it was wasteful to invest such money in something that could barely emulate the living, breathing Ariana. _The sheer nerve of it,_ I thought darkly. It was due to my dear brother, after all, that Ariana was no longer living and breathing in the first place.

Not that he'd ever admit it…

And I feared, also, just as everyone always seemed to have done, our family would take Albus' point of view and chastise me for investing in the portrait. My mother, I was sure, resting peacefully in her grave, would have wanted it too. And my father in Azkaban. But it was so very important to me—to have her immortalised in paint—that I pooled together everything I had and sought out the most renowned portrait artist I could afford.

Alas, I knew I could not keep it from him forever, and when it arrived, I was so stunned, so deeply moved, that I wouldn't have wanted to keep it to myself anyway.

It arrived precisely a week after the funeral. For a moment, all I could do was stare, unable to believe my eyes. Ariana's face was every bit as beautiful as it was the day she died, now preserved only as that delicate painting, and as a memory in my heart. It was unnerving how realistic it was—nothing I could have hoped for. The artist had so successfully captured every delicate detail: the pale blush in her cheeks, the straw-colour of her hair, the vacant sweetness in her eyes…

It was almost like having my sister back.

 _Almost._

Ariana's image offered a polite smile, emphasising every gentle detail of her young face. I offered a watery smile back, throat constricting, tears threatening to spill.

"You didn't tell me," a quiet voice announced from behind me.

I turned and scowled, still holding the portrait. It was difficult to read Albus. His expression was stern, but his eyes were full of sorrow.

"About the portrait," he explained.

I turned my head away, not wanting to look into my brother's guilt-ridden face—it made me feel sick, disgusted, my blood boiling. We had been avoiding each other for weeks. Ever since… _it_ happened.

We couldn't be around each other without getting worked up and yelling (and fighting). The funeral had been a disaster. It gave me slight satisfaction to see the crookedness in Albus' nose—almost as much satisfaction as it had given me when I'd punched him and broken it in the first place. Everybody had been horrified. _I_ was the bad guy.

But I didn't care. Albus deserved it for what he'd done, and I was assured in the fact that, while I may have made a scene at the funeral, it was my brother who was responsible for the fact that we were even attending a funeral. But he'd never admit it. Even now, he was so adamant that it wasn't his fault.

But I had to believe that it was. I _had_ to believe it…

We had kept our distance since the funeral—a week ago—opting to mourn in isolation. It was so cold, so lonely in that empty house. No mother, no father, and now no sister. All either of us had was a brother we resented. Albus didn't even have his idiotically rebellious friend anymore. The spineless git had fled the instant Ariana had turned cold. I'd almost pity Albus if I wasn't so intent on blaming him. He, like me, had lost everything.

"I knew you'd disapprove," I said, spitting hostility. I was staring, intently, at Ariana's portrait again. Looking into her gentle blue eyes calmed me. It almost made me forget that Albus was there.

But he ruined it, of course, by relentlessly reminding me of his presence.

"I would have," he admitted. "It's an awful lot of money to invest in a material possession. One which is, ultimately, rather frivolous."

Despite my best efforts, I snapped. " _Frivolous?"_ I repeated in disgust. "This is our sister, Albus! _Was_ ," I said coldly, glaring at him. He had the decency to look remorseful. "I would give _everything_ I have to have Ariana back. And since I can't _have_ her back, I chose to give everything I have to the next closest thing. And you have no right," I roared, "to tell me I was wrong to do so!"

Albus did not react in the way he normally did to my taunts; he observed me calmly, almost a little patronisingly. I didn't care that I was being weak, or immature, or whatever it was he was trying to force me to feel. Albus might have finally managed to control his emotions, but I hadn't been granted that blessing. Nor did I want to. I wanted him to feel my pain. I wanted him to know _exactly_ how I felt—about him, about Ariana, about everything.

"You didn't let me finish," Albus said in the same calm voice.

I regarded him with suspicion, still clinging to the hard wood of the frame Ariana's image was encased in.

"It was an awful lot of money to invest in nothing more than canvas and paint—"

I opened my mouth to yell at him again, but Albus went on before I could do so.

"—but seeing it now… I'm glad you did so. It's a beautiful tribute to her."

I closed my mouth but kept my cold stare in place. "It wasn't for you," I grunted. "It was for me. It was for… Ariana."

"Nonetheless, I think it will make a beautiful addition to our house."

 _Our house._ Mine and Albus'. Because that's all that was left of our pitiful household.

"I told you," I said, breathing through my teeth, "it wasn't for you. It's _not_ for you." I clutched the edges of the frame tighter.

"You won't even allow me to gaze upon a portrait of my late sister?" Albus asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. Was he trying to undermine me? To goad me? Or was he just that condescending on his own?

"It is because of _you_ that we don't even have a sister!" I yelled, pitifully losing my temper once more. "Forgive me," I said sarcastically, "for wanting to keep this one last reminder of her to myself. You destroy everything you touch, Albus! And you destroy everyone you love…"

My brother looked away, remorse, sadness, _pain_ in his pale blue eyes, and something of triumph swelled in my stomach.

"I won't have this argument again," he said, still quiet. There was no fight left in him, no life. But his eyes were glistening, almost like he was about to cry.

"Good," I grunted. Though I wouldn't voice it to him, I was grateful. There was no fight left in me either, not really. I was tired of all the incessant arguing, tired of us trying to blame each other because we couldn't bring ourselves to shoulder our own blame. I knew, deep down, that I was just as likely a candidate for Ariana's killer as my big brother; I just didn't want to admit it.

I would never accept it. I could never live with myself…

"It really does bear a remarkable likeness," Albus said after a lingering, almost cathartic pause. He was inspecting the exquisite painting in my hands. I wanted to take it away from his gaze—keep it only for myself—but I knew, in that moment, that would just be petty and selfish. Another part of me—the vindictive, cruel part— _wanted_ him to look at it. I wanted him to stare into the face—stare into the eyes that, no matter how realistic they were, bore a painful reminder that our sister was dead and now only lived on as a painting, whether that was because of him, me, Gellert Grindelwald, or (and it was more likely) a combination of all three of us. A group effort. Allies in the murder if an innocent girl. Of our sister.

And maybe I wondered why I really wanted such a realistic painting myself. Was it really just so I could have a physical reminder of my sister? Or was it because I wanted to punish myself? To force myself to live with the guilt of what I had, if not done myself, at least contributed to. To witness the glimmering light in the eyes of which, in real life, I had extinguished.

I looked away, my throat constricting and my eyes welling once more. "I'm going to keep it in my room," I told my brother.

He didn't protest, as I might have suspected. Instead, he nodded. "And how long do you intend for it to be your room?" he asked politely.

I was taken aback. What was Albus suggesting? That I move out? That I have a lodger or a roommate or something? That we _share_ a room?

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked with perhaps a little too much aggression.

Albus was unswayed. "I merely meant… This house is big. And it is empty. Neither of us," he said uncomfortably, "are duty-bound to this house anymore."

I knew what he meant. We were no longer Ariana's guardians. That was the only reason Albus had stayed so long in the first place, rather than going off on his travels with Elphias Doge like he'd planned. _Well, that and Gellert Grindelwald._ But now, with no sister to look after, no mother, no father, (and no Gellert, in his case)… Why should we stay? What was left for us?

And then it hit me—what he was really saying. "You're leaving," I breathed in accusation.

There was a pause. "There's nothing here for me, Aberforth."

 _There's me_ , I almost said, and by the glint in his eyes, I think he knew it. Instead, I said, in a voice that suggested I couldn't care less, "Where will you go?"

Again, Albus let the silence linger before he responded. I thought, for one horrifying moment, he was going to tell me he was off to track down Grindelwald. "Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" I echoed unintentionally. "Whatever for? You've completed your education—a lot more successfully than most wizards, I might add! What else could they possibly teach you? What else could you possibly learn?"

"Not to _learn_ , Aberforth. To _teach."_

It was I who let the silence linger that time. All I could muster was a surprised, "What?"

Albus just stared at me, unblinking. "I want to teach. At Hogwarts. I want to be a professor."

"Of… what?"

"Of magic."

"What _subject?"_ I snapped.

Albus almost smiled. "I've always enjoyed Transfiguration. But I suppose it all depends on what position is available. If any. I doubt I will be taken on quite so young, but yes—Hogwarts—I think that is my ultimate goal."

I didn't know what to say. It was logical, of course, that we would move out, start working, start making a name for ourselves in the world. I myself would have to complete my education at Hogwarts first, but then… It was just, I felt so helplessly young in that moment. Albus and I had never been apart. And not even that, we had never been on our own. At all. We had always had family…

"Do what you want," I said coldly.

"And you…?" Albus prompted

"What about me?"

"What will _you_ do, Aberforth? After Hogwarts, of course."

I hated how he kept using my name, like he was somehow trying to assert dominance. "I don't know, Albus. I suppose I'll work, too, won't I? I'm not staying here. Obviously."

My brother looked towards the painting in my hands. "And yet you were so insistent on hanging the portrait in 'your room.'"

"So?" I snapped.

"So, if you're so keen to leave, doesn't it seem odd to go to the effort of hanging the painting, only to take it down almost immediately?"

I hesitated. "I didn't mean 'my room' as in my room _here_ ," I lied. "I just meant, wherever I go, Ariana's coming with me. I'll even take her to Hogwarts if I have to. I paid for this portrait—I'm the one who wanted it—so if you thought you had any chance of—"

"I don't want it," Albus interrupted quietly.

" _What?"_

"The portrait. You're right—it's yours, and it should always be yours."

Part of me felt triumphant. Part of me felt sickened. "How easily you dismiss our sister once again," I said bitterly. "Of course you don't care what happens to Ariana, of _course_. It never mattered to you, did it?" I was suddenly yelling. " _She_ never mattered to you! I was her favourite, I was her real guardian when our mother died, I was the only one who gave a damn about her when you were too busy making plans to prance off around the world or do _Merlin knows what_ with that violent Dark-Arts-loving 'friend' of yours—"

"Aberforth," Albus interrupted in such a quiet voice that I almost thought I'd imagined it. When I looked at him, feeling flustered and no doubt red in the face from my lapse, he was staring at me with those pale, blue eyes. There was something in his expression—sincerity, wisdom, _pity._ "This portrait isn't Ariana."

Silence. For a while, we just stared at each other.

"I _know_ , Albus, I'm not—"

" _No,_ Aberforth. Look at me; _listen_ to me."

And, for some reason, I did, with a sinking feeling in my chest even before he'd said anything. "This portrait isn't Ariana. It cannot… replace her. It will never _be_ her. It's just a memory. An imprint. A… _tribute._ "

How was it that my brother, though only a few years older than me, when you looked into his eyes, seemed to have the wisdom of an aged and experienced man, far beyond his years? Why did he always come across as so wise? So profound?

"I know," I said in a hoarse, quiet voice. I was once more staring at the portrait. Ariana's painted eyes did not glitter in the same way they had as a living girl. Her hair was not _quite_ the dirty blonde hue it really had been. The line of her nose was a little too long, her jaw a little too angled.

She smiled at me once more, and not only did my heart clench painfully, but what felt like my entire body. My throat was now so constricted I could barely breathe. My eyes were so full of threatening tears that the vision of Ariana had blurred beyond recognition.

"I know."

* * *

 **The Valentine-Making Station Challenge (by TheNextFolchart):**

Stickers:  
Ice Cream Cone – Write something set during the summer

Candy:  
Conversation Hearts:  
Hug Me – Write about a sibling relationship

 **Cinema Competition II (by TheNextFolchart):**

The Perfect Storm – Write about incredible stubbornness, or alternatively, a death. / "There are no goodbyes—there's only love."


End file.
